Climb Every Mountain

Mt. Everest.  Beautiful, isn't it?

Right now, this whole thing, this whole damn autism thing, simply seems insurmountable. 

I feel like we’ve been climbing toward the summit of Mt. Everest for the last ten years and now there’s been some cosmic joke and we’re all stuck at some horrible base camp, gasping for oxygen.  And there’s an icy wind blowing.

Let me be honest.  I am no tough cookie.  Over the years, I’ve learned that I like to take it easy. 


Ok, I’ll say it, I’m a little… lazy. Ok, I'm lazy. I don’t take on challenges simply to take on challenges. 

I have no idea why you would even climb a mountain when you can simply drive around it or fly over it.  (Oh look down there, how pretty! Pass the Bloody Mary, steward, when do we land?)

My husband is the athlete, the challenger.  He’s the one running 6, 8, 10 or more miles a day, blisters on his feet, sweat pouring off his forehead, pulling muscles and tearing his meniscus, ignoring the inevitable chafing. 

Personally, I think avoiding chafing is a good thing. But that's just me.

Me, I’m still the book-nerd, sitting in the corner reading a 700 page Harry Hole mystery thriller, twirling a lock of my hair. I have never torn my meniscus reading a book. My eyeballs do not get blisters (although I may get a headache from reading for too many hours in a row).

Simply put, I am no autism mom/athlete/wunderkind.  With a passion, I hate this challenge.

But I love my son with an equal passion. And so I will climb this stupid mountain with him. 

I will strap my oxygen tank to my back (it’s filled with Pinot Noir, but still, it’s my oxygen, don't judge) and I will drag myself and my kid up this stupid fucking autism mountain with bleeding fingernails, weeping blisters, and cramped toes, sweating and bitching and moaning and complaining the entire way.

I’ll do it ‘cause I have to, but you can’t make me like it.

For you Sound of Music fans... you know who you are!  I know, it's corny, but who doesn't like The Sound of Music?